Shades of Gray
by tifaxfinalxheaven
Summary: There is only fiction, reality, and the shades of gray in-between. For Norman Jayden, the latter had become his life, his domain, and his cell. Blake/Jayden.


**Title**: Shades of Gray

**Summary**: There is only fiction, reality, and the shades of gray in-between. For Norman Jayden, the latter had become his life, his domain, and his cell.

**Pairing**: Blake/Jayden.

**Rating**: T+, eventual M, for implied drug abuse, swearing, adult situations, etc.

**Setting**: Almost two months after the 'Case Closed' ending.

* * *

_Prologue_

A convoy of matchbox-sized tanks traversed his escritoire, holographic and fake and yet entirely _real_ as their transparent turrets swiveled and pivoted, emitting gentle mechanical hums as the laboring tracks and sprockets carried them over the few files covering obscuring the desktop.

As expected, the tanks were weightless, being only heavy and cumbersome in _appearance_, judging by how the plates did nothing to smooth the wrinkled papers that passed beneath the hull.

To his left, ARI lay discarded and alone from where he had unceremoniously pulled them from his face. The fluorescent lighting overhead glinted harshly off the black lenses, cold and austere and unlike any way he had had ever seen them.

Before, the glasses had been irresistibly familiar and welcoming, consigning to him their awe-inspiring world where the line between technological grandeur and magic (or the closest thing to it) blurred into nonexistence. In his line of work, and possibly even in his personal life, ARI was his best friend. It compensated for all of his shortcomings when cases tried his abilities to their limits, and provided an escape from reality when he needed it - which, unfortunately, was often.

But now, the words on his tongue concerning the glasses were _foreign_, and _strange_. The lenses were an ungodly pair of eyes resting on his desk, like that of some insect, glossy, idle, and disturbingly observant. He felt his skin crawl under his clothes, as if on _cue_, an army of the little bastards were invading him, exploiting this moment of vulnerability and distress. He couldn't shake the sensation of hair-thin legs creeping over his flesh, nor of probing antennae mapping out the quickest route to his head. The fleet marched over scars and muscles and tissue alike to where they would assault his eyes, ears, mouth, nose - every orifice they could find - so that they might torment him from inside as well as out.

"No, no, no, no, _no_…" He breathed, voice raspy and hushed from the dryness that had initially claimed his throat when he first saw the tanks. This couldn't be happening. It _couldn't_ be. He had successfully managed to kick his Triptocaine addiction; he hadn't used the drug in weeks - months, possibly. Withdrawals tapered off, and cravings gradually followed suit. But this…

Shit, what _was_ this?

A quick glance around solidified his belief that he wasn't suffering from a Tripto deficiency. The walls weren't swaying in some nightmarish tarantella wherein the white-wash melted into the carpet, and the room wasn't phasing in and out of his sight - and, simply put, he did not _feel_ like he was suffering a typical attack.

His stomach wasn't trying to contort in ways that weren't humanly possible, wasn't attempting to spill its contents and paint his workspace with vibrant, acrid sickness. He looked to his hands which, surprisingly, were still and languid; there wasn't a hint of a tremor to ravage his nerves. The sweat beading on his forehead was minimal, and mostly due to the fact he had set the thermostat of his hotel room in the high seventies.

Pennsylvania in late December… It gave him chills just _thinking_ about it. He had wanted to leave the state as soon as his business with the OK Investigation was finished. Take a vacation down in Florida or something. However, there was always that _one_ local talk show - _or_ local news station, _or_ local radio station - that demanded he tell them what he'd already said innumerable times before.

… But it wasn't like he was needed for anything else. Central didn't want him back for any new cases. In fact, they encouraged his staying behind to help "brighten the public's outlook" of the FBI by making these redundant appearances. Pretentious bullshit if he ever did hear it - and, _boy_, had he heard it plenty enough while partnered with a certain Carter Blake.

And as much he would've liked to linger on thoughts pertaining to that psychotic son-of-a-bitch, there were more pressing concerns at hand - like the illusionary tanks freely roaming his desk, still happily whirring and revving away.

While shaking his head in a feeble attempt at ridding himself of the general unease spreading through his body, an idea struck.

The _glove_.

He made no delay in jolting the article of leather and circuits from his hand, tossing it carelessly from his person, paying no mind to the quiet flopping sound it made as it hit the floor, crumpled.

No good. Still there.

_Shit_.

"Maybe if I jus'… close my eyes." He muttered lowly, his pale green stare following the little war machines as they explored his workspace. The panic was starting to simmer within his gut, burning him to the point of numbness, as if his nerves had been overloaded, devastated. Every second that passed in which he watched the unnerving scene before him, he felt his heart sink further into his belly, like a lead weight lowered into molasses.

"Yeah, yeah, that's it. Jus' close your eyes, Norman. Take a little break. It'll go away." His voice wavered, subtly inflecting upwards with naïve enthusiasm and hope. "It'll all go away."

The skin of his eyelids were darkened with exhaustion, but nonetheless curtained his sight, abandoning him in the comfort of darkness.

For a few moments, he could still hear the artificial noises resonating from the roaming tanks. Every miniscule decibel echoed in his ears, ringing, vibrating, and maliciously coupling with the deafening palpitations of his heart. And, out of nowhere, it felt like he was falling. The wind was whistling past his ears, blocking out the sounds of discord, disheveling his well-groomed hair, filling his clothes, taking up space, making him _feel_.

Then, there was nothing. Just the blackness of purposed fiction, reality, and all the shades of gray in-between.


End file.
